Closed Doors
by Little Moffat
Summary: Three years later...I feel as though that is all I have to say. Feels. uh that's it really. Enjoy :)


Author note: Based off a picture based off the songs 'Jar of Hearts' and '1000 Years' by Christina Perry [good songs super feelsy]

* * *

Three years ago Sherlock jumped.

Three years ago John buried two bodies, himself and Sherlock.

Three years ago today John begged, pleaded the body six feet below, to be a lie.

Three years ago today in 3...2...1...

John's wish had not been granted.

* * *

John got on the bus and took his usual seat near the middle. He was on his way to Scotland Yard to assist Detective Inspector Lestrade on a case. John is still occasionally called on when the police need help, because after all the years of working and living with the Great Sherlock Holmes he picked up on the tricks of the trade, though John never used that term and would get extremely flustered when Anderson would use it in a mock of the skills he doesn't have and never acquired.

The bus pulled over to let passengers on and off. John looked up glancing through the new faces, but it's not a face that catches his attention, but a mass of curly black hair that ensnares his fantasies and deepest wishes.

:

:

But there is time to trail that thought process later when he is alone in that flat avoiding that room and the thought that two rooms are no longer required at 221b Baker Street, Lestrade needs him now. Besides he knew that his hope would become nothing.

* * *

"Donovan." John nodded politely as he entered Scotland Yard, "Lestrade called the other day and gave me that case file. Thought I would come in to go over findings and see if there is anything else I can look at."

"Today?" Sally said confused, "You want to do that today?"

"Yeah, I mean, I'm not doing anything and he said it was important." John looked around the office space and saw nothing out of the ordinary and Lestrade in his office, "Look he is right there if you don't want me here I'll drop off the notes, leave, and come back another time."

"Fine, go ahead." Sally returned to her desk, but kept an eye on John as he moved through the space.

John knocked on Lestrade's door and got a double take from the Detective Inspector.

"What are you doing here today?" Lestrade asked as John entered and took a seat thumbing through the case file in his hands.

Why is everyone asking me that. I mean really?" John exclaimed frustrated, "You said it was important! So here I am!" He added in a whisper, "It's what he would have wanted anyway."

"No, it's not and you know it. If it had been you up there-" He cut himself off, "he wouldn't be here today" He finished softly.

"Lestrade, I have died everyday waiting for this to be a lie. The scars left by that jump are not going to heal if I sit around and mope. I need to move on now."

"John, go home. We can talk about this later."

"Fine."

And John left the office and boarded the bus to go back home; he hadn't taken a cab in three years. As he sat in his usual seat the same mop of dark curly hair was near the front of the bus. But, no not possible.

John got off a stop early, it would take longer to get home, but it got him off the bus and away from the curly haired stranger and that was the important part.

* * *

John got the flat much later than he usually did, but he avoided the stranger on the bus that reminded him of-

Maybe Lestrade was right in thinking that John had yet to move on, but John was doing a passable job of ignoring the ache in his chest every time he passed His room, that numbness that normal people associate with the cold, but John links it to the fact that another year, another month, another day rolls by, and John is still here, by himself. Ignoring the fact that the only person who had made him feel happy full alive was gone and never coming back.

The only man he had ever loved was dead.

John climbed the steps entered the flat and took his usual seat.

And sat.

Waiting for the impossible.

But knowing it was a wasted hope.

"John," Mrs. Hudson came in to check on him as usual. If she was lucky he would eat. Today she didn't try to offer food, cooked or take out, "there is someone here to see you."

"If they need help please send them away or to the police. Since they seem to know what's best." He mumbled the last bit.

"Well I'm going to let them in, dear, I think that this client will help." Mrs. Hudson nodded sagely as she moved back down the stairs to let in the next client he would turn down, but he was fine, he had moved on. It wasn't as if he couldn't stand the thought of using the skill he learned from Him, but not have him here. He could help others without his mysterious collared sharp cheek-boned partner, he had done a passable job for the past three years. Three long years of comments to a man who was no longer there and the excitement that immediately deteriorates as soon as John remembers that there is no one else there.

It has been a long three years for Consulting Detective Captain Doctor John Watson of 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

Only one in the World, though he did not invent the job.

* * *

John settled into his chair, as he waited to turn yet another client away, because he could lie to others, but not to himself and he knew that he couldn't do it.

He heard whispering by the door.

"You best get in there," Mrs. Hudson said softly, "he never really did recover, Sherlock."

The name set off so many emotions, John's eyes teared up.

"I understand Mrs. Hudson," The deep voice was so familiar John couldn't help, but to look at the impossible man in his door way.

"No," John said catching the attention of Mrs. Hudson and company, "This isn't possible. You're dead."

"John, please, let me explain." The man from the bus took a step into the room, "I had to do all of it to protect you."

One step closer

"No." John whispered enough for the man to hear him, "Go away!"

One step away. And John ran. Ran to the room he has been avoiding for three years.

And locked the door.

The man followed him, but was locked out.

"John, please, let me in." The voice on the other side of the door pleaded.

"No! Sherlock, you don't- you don't understand." John his voice decrescendo-ed to a broken whisper, the same one he used when visiting the grave of the man on the other side of the door, "Sherlock- I have died everyday waiting for you to walk through that door."

"I know, I am so so sorry, but please understand that I had a reason to do it." Sherlock rested his head on the door and though John couldn't see it he knew the man so well that he knew it was done. "Please, please, John, let me in."

"I honestly don't know if I can."

And that is where Sherlock stayed for the rest of the night.

Waiting for John to let him in.

And though John had a bed in the room he didn't use it.

He staid on the floor where he knew Sherlock was on the other side.

"John," Sherlock whispered, "every breath, every hour has come to this. Where I could come home, to you. I have been chasing down Moriarty's men for three years wishing I could be anywhere else, but not anywhere. I wanted to be here, with you." Sherlock knelt with his hands on the thin piece of wood separating them, there always did seem to be something.

* * *

Hours later the door cracked open.

And for the first time in three years

John saw Sherlock's face.


End file.
